


Hold Tight, We're In For Nasty Weather

by violentdarlings



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Demisexual Weasel, Dubious Consent, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mid-Canon, Missing Scene, these boys are damaged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 18:35:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15125450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentdarlings/pseuds/violentdarlings
Summary: Mid-Deadpool 2 ambiguous feelings missing scene.





	Hold Tight, We're In For Nasty Weather

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Burning Down the House'.

Weasel comes home to find Wade on his doorstep, curled up against the cold, cuddling a bottle of vodka and dressed in old sweats and a T-shirt. Weasel looks down at him, at his mottled red skin all goosebumped and trembling with the cold, and unlocks his door, leaning down to shake Wade awake.

“Come on, man,” he says, and Wade cracks open an eyelid. It’s four am and Weasel just wants a shower, his bed, and maybe ten minutes to jerk off before he passes out. But Wade is suffering, and Weasel only pretends to be an asshole, he isn’t really one. Most of the time, anyway.

He hauls Wade to his feet, neatly disengaging him from the bottle of vodka, and leads them both into the bathroom, turning the shower on. The hot water system in his building is shit; at least, that’s what he tells himself when he shoves the other man under the spray, fully clothed, and strips off his own stained shirt and ripped jeans.

“Budge up,” he tells Wade, who is standing under the falling water, eyes blank, but at least he’s not shaking anymore. Weasel peels Wade’s drenched shirt off him, and it seems to jolt Wade enough to start taking off his own pants, and whoa, yep, there’s Wade’s dick, just as scarred as the last time Weasel saw it. (Weasel’s keeping his own boxers on, but that’s a personal choice. It’s not because he’s afraid Wade might see his dick. No, sirree.)

“I want Ness,” Wade says hollowly, barely audible over the sound of the water. Something in Weasel’s chest clenches hard.

“I know, buddy,” he replies, and runs a soapy washcloth over Wade’s bald head, smoothing it over his scarred shoulders. “Man, you gotta help me out here,” he says, pushing the cloth into Wade’s fist, and gradually Wade washes his chest, his stomach, and unashamedly soaps up his cock while Weasel looks the other way and attempts to get the smell of cheap booze out of his hair.

“Dude, why are we in your shower?” Wade’s voice is slow and halting, but at least he’s out of that weird zombie state he was in. Weasel huffs and snatches the washcloth from Wade’s hand, giving it no more than a perfunctory rinse before using it to scrub his own body down.

“Because you were frozen solider than Colossus’ ass,” he retorts sharply, and steps out of his sodden boxers so he can wash his ass. “And you were being kind of weird. Have you been trying acid again?” Wade laughs. It doesn’t sound like a laugh. It sounds kind of like he’s dying.

“You know that doesn’t affect me,” he says. Weasel shrugs, and turns off the water.

“Neither does Absolut, but you were cuddling the shit out of a vodka bottle when I got here.” He throws Wade the good towel. Not because Weasel gives a shit about being a good host or anything, but because the dumb guy just lost his girlfriend. Weasel’s not totally heartless. He can use the holey towel for one night. “You can have the couch if you want.”

Weasel wanders out nude, shivering, and pulls on boxers and a T-shirt. He throws Wade his oldest, ugliest clothes, the ones worn so many times they’re as soft as a cloud, and dumps a couple of blankets on the couch. Still, he’s hardly surprised later, when a gust of cool air awakens him from his half-doze and Wade slides in beside him, pressing his feet against Weasel’s ankles. Jokes on him, though; Weasel made him put socks on.

“I can’t sleep alone,” Wade whispers, in his most pathetic voice. “Also, your couch stinks like stale farts.” Weasel croaks out a noise that might be a laugh. Even he doesn’t know. Fucking Wade.

“Was like that when I pulled it out of that dumpster,” he replies drowsily. “Go the fuck to sleep.”

Wade turns on his side, with more volume than Weasel considers strictly necessary. Then he turns on the other one, then flops down on his belly, before finally giving up on annoying Weasel into paying attention to him via non-direct methods and simply pokes him in the ribs.

“What?” Weasel snaps.

“I can’t sleep,” Wade says again, in what Weasel thinks he means to be sotto voce, except Wade does everything with maximum effort and so the words are delivered at a volume probably loud enough to be heard four blocks away. “Can I suck you off?”

Weasel opens his eyes. It’s dark, but he can see the outline of Wade, the tilt of his head. “No,” Weasel says flatly. “No way.” Wade makes a sulky little noise like the whiny bitch he is.

“Why not?” he whines. See, whiny. Weasel called it. “I’ve done it before.”

“When you were a, not drunk, b, not high, and c, not grieving,” Weasel points out. Wade shrugs.

“We’ve definitely fucked high and drunk before,” he retorts. “And Ness –” He shudders. “I don’t want to think about Ness. I’m not drunk, dude. Or taking drugs. Please.”

Fuck, this is wrong. Weasel had always considered their previous drunken encounters as Wade doing him a solid, like a bro giving another bro a quick one because the latter bro hadn’t fucked a girl in over a year. Like this, though, like he’s doing Wade a favour – the power is heady, and Weasel knows himself well enough that even a little dash of authority corrupts him absolutely; he is not the kind of guy who should have any responsibility.

But it’s Wade.

“You can jerk me off, and I’ll do you after,” he says eventually. “And then we’ll sleep. Deal?”

“Deal,” Wade says, and Weasel is immediately nearly flattened by six feet plus of mentally deranged mercenary. Wade is kissing him sloppily, all teeth and tongue, and Weasel doesn’t want it, precisely, but he doesn’t not want it enough to stop.

“We can snuggle after,” Weasel tells him, and sure enough, that gets Wade’s attention. “Get on with it, DP.” Wade snorts, a weird little noise, and palms Weasel through his boxers, sticking his hand through the gap in the front to get a better grip.

Weasel’s always been weird about sex. Sometimes he can get it up, sometimes he can’t. it’s never happened with Wade, that his cock decides to misbehave, and it isn’t happening now; Weasel chubs up almost embarrassingly quickly, the rumbling skin-hunger he usually keeps tucked away deep down in his flesh flaring into life. Fuck waiting; Weasel worms a hand down between their bodies to jerk Wade off roughly, the other man’s cock hard before he even gets his hand on it. Wade hisses through his teeth.

“Dude, come on –” He’s humping Weasel’s hand like he wants to get off _now_ , like he doesn’t want to wait. It’s hardly the sexiest fuck Weasel’s ever had, or the prettiest. Wade is scarred and mottled and damaged, and Weasel is squinty without his specs and possibly even more damaged, and the world is shit but at least he’s warm and getting a hand job, so there’s that.

Wade comes first, jerky and shaking, and his weight on top of Weasel goes leaden even as Wade’s hand continues jerking him off. Weasel breathes out, focusses on what he can see, grabs Wade’s ass hard with the hand not covered in come so he can rub off against Wade instead. Wade gets it, bless him, he always gets it, and Weasel’s dick eases between Wade’s bare thighs. His skin is rough and fuck, it almost hurts, Weasel grits his teeth, grinding hard between Wade’s legs, the bite of the pain almost enough to make him come. But it stays out of reach, and Weasel’s on the verge of giving up when Wade bites him hard on the ear.

“Fuck,” Weasel swears, and is coming before he knows it; long, aching pulses of jizz out of his cock, so good he wants to cry, or come again, or never stop coming, just exist in the now, in this blissful absence of thought. He hits planet earth again with a dull thud, and the feel of his softening cock against Wade’s now-slimy thighs is enough to make his stomach turn. He pushes Wade off him, although not ungently, and tosses him a dirty shirt to clean up with, wiping his hand with it on the way.

“This is fucked up,” he says into the dark, and there’s a soft agreeing sound from Wade, who throws the come-covered shirt on the floor and shamelessly curling into Weasel’s side. Weasel doesn’t usually like to be touched while he’s trying to fall asleep, but he’s known Wade too long now. Weasel’s own body doesn’t tense up around Wade, doesn’t treat him like a hostile presence, and Weasel brushes his hair out of his eyes and slings an arm against the mercenary against him, the infamous Deadpool, who Weasel can only ever see as just Wade.

“Can I come to work with you tomorrow,” Wade mumbles, and Weasel doesn’t remember how to say no.


End file.
